A Christmas Story
by LadyDivine91
Summary: An angel and a demon watching a Christmas pageant, discussing the bitter and enjoying the sweet. Aziraphale x Crowley


_The First Noel, _

_the Angels did say_

_Was to certain poor shepherds _

_in fields as they lay …_

"Hmm … They're quite good, aren't they?"

"Quite."

"Shame they had to drag these poor kids out in the cold to entertain us though, huh?"

"It is nippy out, yes."

"Speaking of … cocoa?" Crowley nudges a thermos against Aziraphale's arm. Aziraphale shifts only his eyes to look at it.

"Thank you," he says softly, taking it in both hands. He sighs when his fingers wrap around the comfortably hot cylinder. He didn't realize that he'd let himself go cold – probably out of sympathy for the choir of eight through twelve-year-olds singing their hearts out while their pastor and a flock of altar tenders lay a statue of baby Jesus in a hay-laden manger.

It's a tradition on Christmas Eve after midnight mass – the laying of the infant savior in his manger. And Crowley knows that Aziraphale never misses it.

But this is the first time Crowley gets to watch it with him.

"You found me," Aziraphale says, unscrewing the lid to the thermos and taking a sip.

"It wasn't all that hard." Crowley reaches into an inside pocket of his coat as the wind blows around them, pulls out a black metal flask, and flashes it Aziraphale's way. Aziraphale nods and tilts the mouth of the thermos towards him. Crowley uncaps the flask and, with a generous pour, makes the cocoa Irish. "Ironically, you're the only angel out and about at present, during the one time of the year you guys should be swarming the streets."

"Yes, well …" Aziraphale lets the remaining sentence drown inside the thermos with his next sip, not expending any energy towards defending the absence of his kind.

Aziraphale didn't choose the biggest church to go to on this blessed night, not the sort that would have a mob gathered round it, or celebrities in attendance who would attract a crowd. This church is humble, out of the way. It took Crowley effort to get to it. He could only drive his Bentley so far. Then he was forced to park and hike the rest of the way through wet grass in the dark. As churches go, this one that they're standing in front of is a much more accurate representation of the barn that baby Jesus was born in.

Which means the people who have come to worship must _really_ want to be here to go so far out of their way.

"To be honest, I'm hurt you didn't invite me to come with you," Crowley says, taking a swig from his flask.

"I didn't think you'd be interested."

"I like the Christmas story as much as the next demon."

"You were asleep."

"Of course I was asleep!" Crowley chortles. "It's after _midnight_!"

"I didn't want to wake you. I know how much you like to sleep."

"I like being with you more."

Aziraphale smiles at his husband's remark, but it doesn't take his eyes away from his focus. Crowley observes Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, tries to imagine what he's thinking as he watches these modern day humans act out a scene he witnessed firsthand centuries ago. But the longer Crowley watches him, he begins to notice that his angel isn't looking where he'd assumed - not at the cherubic baby Jesus raising his chubby arms in exultation, not at the bright lights or the decorations, or the choir. He's not looking at the rest of the players entering the scene – a shepherd wearing a stuffed sheep across his shoulders, playfully admiring it like it's an expensive mink stole; another stoic boy, his bulky varsity jacket showing beneath his thin linen robe; a teenage Joseph who's yawned twice already; a slightly younger mother Mary with vibrant pink hair peeking out from along the edges of a chunky knit pompom hat; a flamboyant King Caspar prancing down the aisle, absolutely dousing the audience with frankincense - as the song selection changes to _Angels We Have Heard on High_. The children seem to be having a blast despite the hour and the temperature, but Aziraphale has stopped enjoying their antics.

He's gazing over their heads, eyes locked on a crucifix standing beyond the festivities, shrouded in shadow.

"These kids are putting on a stellar performance," Crowley says, inching closer to his husband and slipping an arm through his. "I don't think I've ever seen such a lively re-enactment."

"They are doing a wonderful job," Aziraphale admits, his voice thick.

"So why so glum? Hmm? What's on your mind?"

Aziraphale takes a final poignant sip from the thermos. He screws the lid back on and stuffs it in his coat pocket. He puts a hand over Crowley's, breathes in deep, and blinks watery eyes. "I saw that boy born. I watched him grow. I heard him preach the Almighty's message. I saw him feed the poor, heal the sick …" Aziraphale pauses, swallowing when his voice cracks, but it does nothing to smooth it down. "We watched him die."

"I remember," Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale's arm tight.

"He was Her truest, most devout Prophet … and She let them nail him to a cross. Her own _son_!"

"She did it to prove how much She loved humanity." Crowley tries to comfort his husband, but his tone stiffens. "Her great sacrifice."

"But it wasn't _Her_ great sacrifice, was it? It was _his_. And from what I remember, he didn't get much say in the matter." Aziraphale scoffs. "Seems to be a running theme with Her, if you ask me."

"Can't disagree with you there."

"But then, after all that, She would have let humanity _die_? In another pointless war to prove Heaven is more powerful than Hell?"

Crowley shrugs. "Maybe not. Maybe She let it play out the way it did because She knew how it would end. Maybe She designed it that way. You know – the Ineffable Plan?"

"The Ineffable _Game_, you mean," Aziraphale says exhaustively. "I'm tired of all the games."

"She does excel at them."

Aziraphale leans into his husband's arm, rests his head on Crowley's shoulder. "I wouldn't mind so much if She'd at least let us know the rules!"

"Well, like you've said before – Her plan, Her game, Her rules. It's not for us to question."

"You, my dear, were cast out for asking questions. We've been on opposite sides for over 6000 years. Regardless of our friendship, of the lines we blurred, I thought I knew where we stood – black and white, cut and dry. But now I'm beginning to doubt."

"Times have changed. Things were simpler way back when."

"Were they though?"

Crowley exhales long into the chilly air. "I don't know."

"Anyway, probably not long before she casts me out, too. The thing is … I'm not sure I'd be too upset about that."

"She won't cast you out," Crowley says reassuringly, if only for himself. "You're the only angel She has who actually behaves like an angel."

"Even with all the tempting?" Aziraphale asks smugly.

Crowley grins at his husband's cheek. "Even with. If she hasn't cast you out by now, she isn't going to. If you ask me, I think She has greater plans for you."

"Yes, well, I don't think I care."

"I think you do."

"And why is that?"

"Because you love your job. You love Earth. And you love humanity. You've fought hard to protect it. Almost died, too. I would like to believe that, in the end, even if no one else knows about it, it means something to Her."

"So what do you suggest I do? Hold my breath and wait for a commendation?"

"You do what you were put here to do. You inspire humanity. You watch over them. You bless them. And you do it not because She commands it, but because you love them. You want what's best for them. Luckily, now you have the freedom to decide what that is."

Aziraphale snuggles deeper against his husband's side, his eyes leaving the crucifix and rejoining the pageant right as King Caspar hands off his frankincense to a bleary-eyed Joseph and performs a dramatic death drop to rousing applause. "You know, you would have made a decent Principality."

"Yuck."

"A better Archangel, even."

Crowley shakes his head. "Not at all. In fact, I've only ever met one being who truly deserves the title." He drops a kiss in Aziraphale's hair. "And I married him."


End file.
